Tales of the Lost Years
by CrystalFNfire
Summary: As Legolas and Gimli wait for the ship to let them pass into the Undying Lands, they meet an old man and begin to tell tales of their travels. R&R!
1. Prologue

Prologue

**Prologue**

"Yes sir," the man bowed. "Your seats shall be prepared and you may board in some time. Please be patient."

Legolas bobbed his head in turn, having already forgotten the man's name, and was not sad to see his back. He looked to the rising sun and his heart was gladdened when he heard the beautiful song of the seagull. A tall, gray ship awaited him at the end of the dock, its sails fluttering in the zephyr and its tall masts glistening in the sun. He breathed in the salty sea air and smiled. Waiting was no problem for him. After all, he had waited 3054 years, all of his life, to cross the Great Sea into the Undying Lands. A few more hours were nothing.

The dwarf at his side grunted in impatience, and limped over to a pile of flat rocks to sit. He seemed to know exactly what the elf was thinking, and shook a tired old finger at him. At 261, he was indeed a very old dwarf, and though age had taken his strength and health, it had not taken either his wit or his earthy sense of humor. "Aye, _you_ have time to wait," he coughed, but smiled in his knowing way. "_You_ happen to have forever. But I may keel over and die any second now and never see the beauty of these Undying Lands you keep speaking of.

The elf laughed and joined his friend on the rocks, forgetting the beauty and the luring song of the sea. "Undoubtedly, to your mind, it is not half as beautiful as the Glittering Caves." he teased.

The dwarf chucked at the memory of so long ago, when he still had his health and youth. "You know my reason to go to Valinor as well as I, elf, and that reason is more beautiful than ten Glittering Caves put together." Gimli sighed and took from a pocket in his worn vest, three strands of beautiful, long, blond hair. To his weak eyes, they appeared as tiny glints of gold in an ocean of blurs.

Ashamed of his dim sight, he had not even spoken of it to Legolas, and had hidden it well from the world.

"Excuse me," a hoarse, rasping voice sounded just a few rocks away from the elf, who whirled around in alarm, a long, white knife in hand. An old man, leaning on a long, wooden staff, peered back at the two with sharp gray eyes. Long, silver hair framed his face and his hollow cheeks let flow a smooth gray beard. He was perched most comfortably on a large rock and smoking an old clay pipe that had seen much use. "I am sorry to have startled you," he said, his eyes growing wide.

Legolas was used to this astonished awe from other races; elves were not usually seen in the Fourth Age, but something else made him think this man uncanny. A little reluctantly, he sheathed his weapon. "You are forgiven, stranger," he nodded once at the man. "But I have not had a man startle me since…a friend of mine." The pain of the death of his good friend and long-time companion in travel, Aragorn, or as he was known in these years, King Elessar, resurged in his heart.

"I heard you conversing," the old man said slowly, blowing a smoke ring from his lips, "and was interested. May I ask your names?"

Gimli nodded gruffly and squinted at the man. "In my days, my good man, the stranger introduced himself first. But in these days of peace, perhaps these rules are lessened. I am proud to say I am Gimli, son of Gloin, and this is my friend, Legolas of Eryn Lasgalen."

Legolas winced slightly at this unfamiliar name that had been given to his homeland of Mirkwood at the turning of the Fourth Age. However, the man's eyebrows moved up slowly, as all of his actions, and the elf forgot his annoyance and felt as if the old man was familiar, but could not understand why.

"Not the legendary Gimli and Legolas of the Fellowship of the Ring!" he gasped and Legolas wanted to roll his eyes. Ever since the end of the War of the Ring, he had not been able to be introduced to anyone without this or an even bigger reaction of surprise. It was to be expected, but the elf had never gotten use to it. "These are indeed strange days," the man mused. "Dreams and legends spring to life out of the grass."

The elf smiled, remembering that day when another dear friend of his, Éomer, only Third Marshall of the Mark then, had spoken the same words when he first heard the name of Aragorn, son of Arathorn.

But those days were gone, and Éomer's son, Elfhelm, was near the end of his reign. Such as it must be, Legolas thought, in friendships with men. They had to end, either with death, or with something much worse.

At the old man's words, he nodded once again, acknowledging this title. "And what may your name be, Master?" the elf asked, for he expected something familiar. This man reminded him of Aragorn, Éomer, and Gandalf put together.

However, he was disappointed. "My name is of little importance," the man intoned, leaning his staff next to him. "But my tale is a long and sad one."

Gimli's eyebrows raised as well, and he coughed heavily. "Is it? We have time. Why not come and tell it? The ship does not seem to want to leave the dock any time soon."

The old man smiled and looked to the sea, watching the morning sun glittering off the calm, blue waters. "No, I am not a leisure to say, I am sorry." There was a long pause before he took up the string of the conversation again. "But come, why not speak of some of your tales? Surely, you have a great stock of them."

The elf became slightly suspicious. "Tales we have. But many are dark and long. We will not speak of them yet. Wherefore came you to these shores?"

"I traveled these lands in my youth," the old man answered. "And now, in my age, I visit these shores to remember. After all, the young live in the stories, and the old do naught but remember and retell them."

Gimli laughed. "In that, you are correct, and your wise words have earned you a story. Come, Legolas. We may find one in our recollections that is neither dark nor sad." When the elf did not answer, he turned back to the old man. "I have a story of our travels, light and good, fit for even a stranger to hear."

"I eagerly await it," the old man smiled. "Please, continue."

**TBC**


	2. The 43rd Orc and the 80th Mug

**The 43rd Orc and the 80th Mug**

Gimli sat triumphantly on the field of victory, congratulating his beloved ax by shoving it deeper into the neck of the prostrate and possibly dead Orc between his legs. "Ah, Legolas!" he hailed, seeing his friend, the elf, emerge from the piles of dead Urûk-Hai. "How many, eh, my Mirkwood prince?"

The elf gave a haughty grin that clearly showed he thought he had won. "Final count, forty-two, Master Dwarf!"

Gimli laughed at this, delighted. "Forty-two?" he asked. "Hmm… not bad for a pointy-eared Elvish princeling. But I, Master Elf, am sitting on pretty forty-three."

Legolas' grin disappeared. The Orc at Gimli's feet gave a feeble twitch, and faster than the eye could see, the elf had nocked an arrow and loosed it into the filthy creature's head. His smile reappeared when it lay still. "There now, Master Dwarf. Forty-three for me, and forty-two for you. What do you say to that?"

The dwarf stamped his foot. "But…but…" he sputtered. "It was already dead!" He pointed to his ax for proof.

"_Please_," the elf said modestly, unstringing his bow and putting it on his back. "It was twitching."

"It was twitching because it's got my ax embedded in its nervous system!" Gimli howled.

"Forty-three."

"Forty-two."

"_Forty- three_."

"I _do_ beg your pardon,' Legolas told the dwarf who was clinging tightly to his back as they rode towards Edoras. The thundering of horse hooves on the yellow plains drowned out their voices to all except themselves. "But _I_ killed your forty-third Orc."

"You did not!" Gimli protested. 'You just shot a pointless arrow into its head after it was already dead, and _claimed_ you killed it!"

Legolas raised an eyebrow. "You are in no place to argue, Master Dwarf," he pointed out, smiling, steered Arod left, then quickly right again so that Gimli nearly fell off. The dwarf gave a whimper and clung tighter to the elf's back. "I _do_ have control of our noble steed," the elf sneered.

"Wait 'til we're on solid ground, Elf. You cheat! You liar! You—"

Gimli did not finish his sentence, as he squawked audibly when Arod leaped and swerved so he was only not touching solid ground, as he wished, because he was holding tightly to the saddle and Legolas' quiver.

Legolas looked uncertainly around the long hall at the celebrating men and back at the large tankard in his hand. The pair was now in Meduseld again, victorious, with men of Rohan. "So… ere…" he sniffed the ale suspiciously. "This is a drinking game?"

"Aye," the dwarf sat back, pleased. "It will settle the score between us once and for all! What d'ya say?"

The elf said nothing but swirled the ale in his tankard, openly turning green.

"Someone mention a drinking game?" Éomer piped up, several mugs already in his hands. "I'm for it!" Gamling, Éothain, and Elfhelm who had come up as well, heartily agreed. One of them set down a huge barrel of ale, tankards already positioned.

Gimli chuckled. "Aye, join, join! But first help me persuade this elf to use this as a way to settle our score on the battlefield!"

"Ah, the lad afraid, is he?" Gamling nudged Éothain.

"Oh, don't worry yourselves," the other man said, catching on. "Only the true blue males have a chance at this game. Why don't you settle for some scented water that's being passed around to the women and children, eh elf?"

Legolas gave a proud toss of his head. "I _am_ a male!" he cried indignantly, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The tankard of ale danced tantalizingly on the table, in front of his eyes.

"No, no," Gimli joined. "You wouldn't want to dirty that long, blond hair of yours, would you now?"

"Yes," Éomer grinned. "Pretty ponytails and all."

The elf clenched his teeth. "Braids!" he cried. "They're called braids!"

"Aw," Elfhelm taunted. "Look at him, blushing like a virgin maid. No one would be able to tell the difference if he just donned a dress."

"Pointy ears make him quite cute," Éomer laughed.

"ALRIGHT!" the elf gave in. "I'll do it!" He picked up his mug, still looking at it with slight disgust.

"Good!" the dwarf laughed. "No pausing, no stopping, and no regurgitation! Last one standing wins!" The two plunged into their tankards with fervor, cheered on by the men of Rohan.

"You know," Gamling said, smiling, "I think I'll sit this one out. I want to see the conclusion of this." The three others put down their mugs as well to sit and watch the showdown between elf and dwarf.

"What in the world is happening over there?" Gandalf asked, watching the growing crowd around a wooden table. He sucked at his pipe and found that his Old Tobey had gotten low.

As he replaced it with some from his pouch, his friend, Aragorn, smiled slightly. "It appears the elf and dwarf have gotten into a drinking game and the men are betting on whose to win." They both turned briefly to applaud Merry and Pippin's third rendition of "The Green Dragon," and then resumed their conversation.

Gandalf cursed himself for not having filled his light pouch with leaf when he had been at Orthanc. "Then let's join in," he said, finally coming with a good idea. "I have my money on the dwarf."

Aragorn laughed. "Then you shall lose, my good wizard. I have seen that elf down nearly half a barrel of wine at one sitting without having the slightest after effect. What shall we bet on then?"

"Any type of leaf you have," the wizard smiled, blowing out smoke from his parted lips.

"Then be prepared to lose all," the man chuckled.

"Fifty-two… fifty-three… fifty-four…" Gimli counted as he downed his ale, a mug in each hand. He seemed perfectly sober, setting each empty tankard down on the growing pile in front of him.

The elf kept drinking as well, accepting one tankard after another form Éomer, who watched the entire thing with amusement.

"Fifty four… fifty-five… fifty-six…" the crowd counted for Legolas, now a bit disconcerted as most of them had betted on the dwarf. However, now that they were more than half way to a hundred, and the elf still showed no sign of relenting, they were starting to change their bets.

"It's going to be a close one," Gandalf commented, watching as the two downed one mug after another.

"I am telling you, the elf is going to win," Aragorn smiled. "You have no chance. Hand over your leaf, now, old man."

"We shall see, we shall see," the wizard stroked his beard.

Gimli seemed to be slowly. "Sesenty-vix…" he slurred, as he dropped another mug onto the pile in front of him. "Seten-seveny…" Suddenly, he stopped.

"No stopping!" Éomer chided.

Legolas stopped for a second as well. "A slight tingly in my fingertips…" he stared in awe at his hand. "I think it's affecting me." However, he went right back to drinking.

The dwarf swayed on his chair. "Only real dwarves…" he said drunkenly, "swim with the little hairy women…" With a huge snore and unfocused eyes, he fell over backwards and knocked over the table of mugs.

At the same time, Legolas put down his eightieth mug and glanced happily at the sleeping form of the dwarf, reeking with the scent of ale. "Well," the elf said, "that's that. Game over."

Gandalf stared in disbelief as the dwarf collapsed. "But… what…."

Aragorn cackled. "Well, you heard the elf. That's that. Game over. Hand over the leaf, Gandalf."

Disgruntled, the wizard handed over his last pouch of Old Tobey and put out his pipe, deciding to keep what he had left for later. "That elf must have a hole in his stomach!" he muttered to himself.

The man heard this, but frowned at the worried expression on the wizard's face. "What is it, Gandalf?"

The wizard sighed. "If I cannot even guess correctly on the ending of a small drinking game," his eyes were far away as he said this. "Then… what will become of my guess for Frodo?"

Aragorn put a hand on the wizard's shoulder. "We have time. Every day, Frodo moves closer to Mordor," he assured him.

The wizard shook his head sadly. "Do we know that?"

"What does your heart tell you?" the man asked gently.

The wizard paused and closed his eyes, but his expression lightened as he thought. "That Frodo is alive… Yes…. Yes, he is alive."

**TBC...**


	3. The Glittering Caves of Aglarond

The old man was as good of an audience as Gimli could hope for. He laughed boisterously when appropriate and gave grave silence when it was required. So good a listener was he that the dwarf could not help but drag the story out further.

"I still grudge him that drinking game," he laughed, but it turned into a phlegm-filled, pneumonic cough. "But when Gandalf told me he had lost a whole pouch of pipe weed to Aragorn, I was almost glad the elf won."

Legolas's attitude toward the man had not changed during the tale, but he gave his friend a small smile of recollection. "And yet you still will not admit that you lost to me at Helm's Deep," he raised an eyebrow. Gimli snorted an answer, and the old man chuckled as this old quarrel came up between the two friends.

"Helm's Deep," he pondered, remembering. "Another place out of books and fairy tales. It is but an old monument now and its days of lorry are ended. When I did see it, it was but an abandoned stronghold with bent gates and breached walls."

The elf turned his brilliant blue eyes to the man and stared at him hard.

He must have journeyed far indeed, to have traveled from the Bay of Lune to the strongholds of Rohan. "Tell me," the old man said at length, his gray eyes sharp and bright. "Are the Glittering Caves as beautiful as they deem? For the dwarves would not let me near when I was there."

Gimli fingered the three elf hairs at his breast and murmured, "The Glittering Caves… Just the mention of them have earned you another tale, human."

* * *

**The Glittering Caves of Aglarond**

Legolas was reluctant to leave their camp at the bowl before Helm's Deep that morning, for after their travels through Moria, he had never felt the same towards caves and closed in spaces. However, he had promised Gimli that he would see the Glittering Caves with him if the dwarf agreed to journey with him to Fangorn Forest to visit the Ents.

Gimli had endured the heaviness of the trees and the countless hours of Old Entish and other "Tree-talk," as he called it, as Legolas conversed with Treebeard as in the Old Days, when elves and trees talked regularly.

Now, for friendship's sake, Legolas would have to endure the prospect of going underground again and be restrained from fresh air for a few hours. He could do it, he knew, as he had done with marching the Paths of the Dead, but he would rather not if given the choice, being the elf he was.

But Gimli's love for the things in the earth and the actual earth itself now brought them at a good pace to the entrance of the cave's yawning mouth. The White Mountains loomed in front of them, its peaks at a staggering height above them. The elf knew that he could not turn back now. _Besides, if I ever had a chance, it would have been to not agree to this journey!_ He thought.

"Well, then, let's go!" the dwarf laughed delightedly and plunged into the ominous darkness before them, his chain mail clinking.

Legolas hesitated, but could find no excuse and ran in after him.

Gimli welcomed the darkness; it was his home. He tread confidently, already running over the mental map of the place in his head. The elf followed close behind, his sight having gone with the morning light in this tunnel. Already, Legolas could feel the walls of the cave crowding around him, and the moist air pressed down thickly, ready to smother him if he did not take in great gulps of oxygen.

_Do not look back, you shall surely run_, he told himself and nearly stepped on his friend, as he was too eager to not be alone.

Gimli sniffed the familiar scent of earth and turned a corner. "A little farther," he told his companion. The elf's breath had become harsh and ragged, which surprised the dwarf, as normally, his breathing was inaudible. Even the soft, steady beat of his footsteps had become wild and halting, first speeding up violently, then tripping over an unseen object and stumbling.

"A little further," Gimli tried to encourage his friend. The elf's clumsiness was beginning to scare him as well, as he had never known, even when traveling the Paths of the Dead, that elves could be anything but graceful. _Perhaps it was because it was not as close as here,_ he thought. It did nto matter to Gimli, who could spend many days and nights underground without a breath of fresh air, but the elf was use to forests and open spaces. _This must be torture, _Gimli thought sympathetically. _Why did I ever push him_?

Perhaps conversation will help him loosen up, the dwarf thought, and smiled. "Now who's breathing so loud, he can be shot in the dark?" he jested, remembering their stay at Lothlórien and Haldir's comments.

"Let's just move to the _glittering_ part of these caves," Legolas said crossly through clenched teeth. Chills ran down his spine and he could not shake the feeling that the walls would crumble upon the two of them and bury them alive. He shuddered at the thought of death in this dark place by suffocation. "Valar damn it, I cannot see a thing!"

"Oh," the dwarf glanced at the faggot in his hand and smiled sheepishly, though he knew the elf could not see his face. He finally understood why the elf was nervous. He had lost his most precious sense: his sight. "Er…you want some light?"

"You mean you brought--!"

"Er… yes. I just forgot to tell you.."

"Well, then, what in all the Undying Lands are you waiting for!" Legolas thundered, his voice echoing eerily through the caves. A few pebbles fell on his head from the impact, and he gave a very un-elf-like squeak at the prospect that his fear may come true.

A scratching sound came and then a hissing of flame gladdened the elf. His sight magically returned. As his pupils focused, he took in the scene before him. The dwarf was holding a torch before him, looking sheepish and trying to smile his way out of it. The suppressed feeling lifted from the elf's heart as he saw that the walls and the ceiling of the cave were along way off and did not seem about to collapse upon the two any time soon.

With a brighter out look of his time at the Glittering Caves, Legolas could hardly be angry, and Gimli, afraid he had made Legolas quite furious, was relieved when the elf gave him a smile and spoke, "What are we waiting for? Lead on."

The dwarf clapped the elf on the back and grinned back. He led the elf into the next chamber, holding the torch up high. He was satisfied as the elf gave a surprised and awed gasp at the cavern around him.

The dancing light form the flames shimmered off the walls and bounced around the room, creating so much light that even the elf had to shield his eyes. The stones glittered in the torchlight, reflecting every color in Middle-Earth to the pools of water on the ground so that the elf felt as if he was among an ethereal gabble of spirits. Beautiful figures danced before his eyes, ephemeral yet perpetual, and silvers and golds shot arrows through the swirls of reds and blues.

And Legolas, Prince of the Woodland Realm, a great lover of trees and all growing things, suddenly felt in his heart the desire of the dwarves for the stones, treasures and glinting things in the earth.

Moving closer to his friend, he laid a hand upon Gimli's shoulder and together, this strange pair watched, awed, as the ebullient and flowing colors came together before their eyes. The Glittering Caves of Aglarond once again succeeded to amaze.

**TBC**


	4. A Journey In the Dark

The old man's eyes softened and he gazed into the distance, east and south, as if trying to search for this beautiful treasure that he would never see. For a long time, he was silent, thinking and smiling slightly, the wonderful image the dwarf had conjured up still lingering in his mind.

Legolas watched him, unable to make out what this man was thinking. He was different from the men of Gondor and Rohan, for his expression was hard to read and his body language gave away nothing.

At length, the man spoke. "You told me of Moria," his voice was concentrated and slow. "The Black Pit. The dwelling of Durin's Bane. You have traveled there?"

At this, Gimli shuddered and grew silent. More wrinkles curled around his brow, as he remembered the dark days that the small band of friends had spent there. And moreover, in the darkness of the Deeps, lay more evils of the earth than Gimli the Dwarf cared to unfathom.

However, Legolas spoke. "Moria brings to my mind many dark and strange memories. But no doubt, you have heard already the Fall of Gandalf the Gray and the Balrog. I have lighter recollections of my time there. Perhaps you would like to hear…"

* * *

**A Journey in the Dark**

When Legolas first stepped into Moria, he had hated it. The place was dark, foul-smelling, and completely rocky, with nothing to relieve him of well… the rocks!

There seemed to be a deep, dark, brooding presence in the air, everywhere he went. The rocks did not bother him so much, as long as the pebbles were not poking under his soft-booted feet, but the worst was the cold and the stuffiness. No sunlight shone through to the deep places of the earth, and even worse, no air seemed to be able to get in. His heart needed a breath of fresh air, and his lungs ached because of the things he was breathing in.

The dwarf, Gimli, seemed to love this place. Dwarves were built to work underground, and so he must have felt right at home. The evil here did not seem to bother him, for he only had eyes for the old mithril mines and the works of his forefathers.

When Gandalf had said it would take four days to get from one end of Moria to the other, the dwarf had sighed. It had not been from exasperation that the journey under the mountains would take too long, but from sadness that the journey was too short.

Since the wizard's proclamation, he had been trying to make the visit in Moria longer than necessary. No one agreed with him, but no one rejected him outright either, except Legolas. After all, the elf had grown up in places like the forest, with lots of leaves and open spaces.

Because of Gimli's desire to go through the mines at a slower pace, the rift between the elf and dwarf had flared up again.

The group made their way in silence along the dark passages of the mines, led by Gandalf, who muttered to himself, choosing first this way then that.

Suddenly, the wizard stopped, causing Pippin to crash headfirst into him. "Ah!" the hobbit cried softly. "Could have given a warning! Got Glamdring right between the eyes I did. Of all the soft places, I got the hard edge!"

"Shh!" Merry whispered, the journey having already wizened him beyond recognition. "There are more sharp edges to Gandalf than you think." They were whispering, but Legolas could hear them clearly. They were the only two in the Fellowship that seemed to still retain their sense of humor after the disaster atop Caradhras.

The wizard ignored them and spoke out, "Here we meet the first of our hard choices, friends." He pointed before them, where the road led. "Our path grows wider but ends in that. Do we move on or go back?" Eight pairs of eyes turned to what he was indicating, and saw that the path indeed _did_ get wider, but ended in a ten foot gap, then continued.

No one could see the bottom of the chasm and no one asked what was down there.

Seeing this obstacle, Gimli immediately suggested that the entire group turn back. He could not help but grin at the prospect of staying longer in these mines, but Legolas immediately disagreed. The tenseness of the elf could be sensed by even Sam He hated this mine and wanted to get out of it as quickly as possible.

Testing the rock with his foot, he nodded silently. "The rock is strong," he commented. "It will hold a jump." Gandalf nodded, as if approving of the elf's idea, but before he could go, Gimli stepped in again.

"We cannot go this way. The hobbits cannot make the jump, and we should find another way somewhere else," he said stoutly, and glared at Legolas, who gave him a murderous look back.

Without saying a word, the elf leaped to the other side, followed by amazed gasps from the hobbits. Ten feet was not much, but to Sam, small hobbit as he was, it was more than twice his body length. How could he ever make that?

Legolas landed lightly, as all of his race did, and turned to look at the others. He held the dwarf under his gaze, who returned his stare, but began to squirm with discomfort after only a few seconds.

His comfort was the last thing on the elf's mind at the moment. "Perhaps," he answered coldly. "The dwarf is afraid." Instantly, he remembered everything that his father, King Thranduil of Mirkwood, had said of dwarves. They were insolent, stiff-necked, ephemeral, and incapable of focusing on anything for a long time. He could recall all of these insults and mentally added to this list.

His thoughts fell on the rest of the Company. The men.

_They are weak and have no abilities. Would you trust the world to them?_ his father's voice sounded again in his head. _If Isildur had been able to let go of the Ring like he should have, would you still be facing this journey with that stubborn dwarf_.

He tried to shut that out. The men had nothing to do with this.

_But_, his father's voice sounded, _if they had been elves, you would have been able to pass over Caradhras and not come down here to this foul dark place_.

His mind came back to the present when he saw the dwarf become extremely red in the face by the light Gandalf's staff. "I am _not_ afraid of such a jump! I have made twice as far in my father's mines!" the dwarf scoffed, his hand already at the ax on his belt. Legolas sneered, doubting this beyond anything else the dwarf had said, but did not respond, for it coordinated wonderfully with his plan.

He returned smugly then, when no one else said anything, "Alright then, Master Dwarf. Prove yourself, and I will say no more."

Aragorn glanced at the two sharply, but they were too caught in their own argument to notice him. Grinding his teeth, his hand also came to the sword at his side, but decided to let it go and only gave the torch in his hand a swipe with venom.

The dwarf opened his mouth but shut it again, clearly having no insults to throw back at the elf. Legolas's sneer grew wider.

"Per.. perhaps you are afraid of the dark, Master Elf? Else, why would you be so eager to move on? A bit jumpy, are we not?" the dwarf finally threw back at Legolas.

The elf bit the inside of his cheeks hard so as not to yell out the long string of Elvish curses that had come to his lips. He was _indeed_ afraid of the darkness, though it was not the end of his fears. The dwarf looked triumphant, and Legolas could not stand to lose to him. "This has nothing to do with the darkness, Dwarf," he spat back. "We must complete the task given to us as quickly as possible before the Dark Lord realizes our mission. The quickest way is over this gap, and if you are so positive you can do it, why do you not prove it!"

"Enough!" the wizard threw up his hands. "Legolas is right. We must go the quickest way, and it is over that rock."

The dwarf again was speechless, but to the elf's surprise, Boromir came to his aid. "We may find another way. A way quicker than this," he spoke fast, trying to stop an all out war between the two rivals. Neither calmed as the man from Gondor wished.

But Gandalf did not heed this, and had already thrown his hat and staff over the gap. With the strength of a much younger man, he leaped across the chasm and landed perfectly, with almost as much grace as the elf.

The others gaped, open-mouthed, at this, but Frodo stepped forward, decided that if Gandalf, their leader, had decided this was necessary he would do it. "I will go next," he proclaimed, and Boromir moved to position himself as if to carry the hobbit, but Frodo refused. "No," he nodded courteously at the man. "I believe you have underestimated us hobbits. I shall make the jump myself."

Then, stepping back a few steps, the hobbit ran and leaped. Frodo was tall for his kind, and thin as well and made the gap easily, as his skills had been honed upon the journey. Sam seemed eager to follow his master, but saw the gap and hung back again, afraid.

Merry, however was unabashed and determined to make the jump. He still seemed in doubt, and he was slightly intimidated by the gap. "It is no shame to ask for help," Aragorn saw this in the hobbits face and said kindly. He had grown to be the most fond of the hobbits, other than Gandalf.

But Merry shook his head. "No Baggins has ever beaten a Brandybuck at jumping ," he said out loud, as if he was trying to reassure himself. Then, going far back, he took a running star and long-jumped.

He leaned forward, feet out in front of him and stumbled as he landed, but he had made it across. Pippin them made it over as well, but Sam was carried by Boromir. Aragorn left the dwarf, who was still doubting his own ability, and joined the rest of the fellowship.

"Do you need help?" the man asked from the other side, and was ready to jump over to help the dwarf.

"Nobody tosses a dwarf!" he said stubbornly and planted his feet. "I will jump. It will show who is the coward yet." Legolas face became hot. He was no coward. _And who is this mortal to say that to an elf_? He thought. He kept his tongue behind his teeth and did not utter a word, for fear of saying something inappropriate.

The dwarf took a few steps back and gave the elf a dark look. Then, taking the steps at a running pace, he leaped. Up into the air he flew, his mail rattling and echoing in the silence. At his highest peak, it looked as if he were to make the jump, but down he came, missing the ground by only inches.

A yell of ear escaped his lips as his feet scraped the side of the rock, knowing he was not going to make it. The elf watched in horror, and before he knew it, he was leaping forward.

Throwing out a hand, the entire image of the dwarf, almost comic in his heavy mail and long hair, arms flailing around uselessly, Legolas watched this as if in slow-motion. His hand grabbed at whatever part of the dwarf he could reach and held on, planting his feet on the edge of the rock.

"Not the beard!" Gimli yelled fearfully, for the elf had grabbed the dwarf's long beard to keep him from falling.

By this time, the others had woken from their stupor and Boromir and Aragorn came and grabbed the dwarf's flailing arms, and together, with some difficulty, they pulled the dwarf into safety.

Legolas lay still in his bedroll that night, hands folded upon his chest and eyes open, staring at the intricate rocky patterns upon the ceiling of the watch tower that Gandalf had selected for them to stay that night. Pippin had fallen asleep in the corner as the watch, having been punished by the wizard being so foolish as to drop a stone into a well. Legolas decided that as he could not pass into the dream world, he would keep watch instead.

To all others, he appeared asleep, but his mind was buzzing with thoughts. _You idiot!_ a little voice had scolded him a dozen times already. _Why did you have to go and rouse the dwarf like that? You know that his ego cannot possible stand the insults that you were hurling at him! You _knew_ that he was going to try and make the jump. What if he had fallen?_

_So much better for the rest of the fellowship_, he told that little voice bitterly, but immediately felt guilty for thinking such a horrible thing. He could not understand why he was even thinking of the dwarf when he should have been comfortable resting.

_Oh, a great contribution that would have been_! the voice told him. _After all, who was it that clearly saved your skin during the Warg's attack?_

_That was just a plain accident!_ Legolas tried to block out the voice. _He happened to be standing behind me when a Warg leaped at him!_

The voice was silent, but the elf's heart was not comforted. Instead, he felt worse, having not listened to his conscience.

Seeing that everyone seemed to be asleep, he got out of his bedroll and began to pace around the room, for it seemed easier to pace and be occupied by something than it was to lie still. "I see, elf, that you cannot sleep either," a gruff voice nearly made the elf jump out of his skin. The dwarf was sitting up, also out of his bedroll, where seconds before, he had been snoring away.

"I wonder why mortals always say the obvious?" Legolas commented coldly, unwilling to be on the receiving end of this dwarf's crude jokes.

However, to his surprise, Gimli laughed. "You think that I am spending precious minutes of my beauty sleep to ridicule you? Nay, elf, you take me too unkindly, I fear," the dwarf told him. Legolas turned his eyes on the stout figure, suspicious, but also curious.

At length, the dwarf gave a curt nod. "I awoke to thank you for saving my life."

The elf near fell back in surprise. He had never expected this courtesy from a dwarf, and the guilty feeling immediately encompassed his heart again. "Nay, do not thank me," he said gravely, speaking his heart. The little voice inside his head cheered up slightly. "It is I who goaded you to attempt the jump when I knew you could not. It was a cowardly thing to do."

The dwarf waved this aside, and took out his pipe and lit it. Blowing smoke rings from his mouth, he answered, "It was not your goading, but this stubborn and thick skull that made me attempt such a thing. I assure you, I shall not try and delay our stay at Moria any longer, if you do not wish it, Master Elf."

Legolas inclined his head, actually meaning respect by it this time, and smiled. "I thank you for that, Gimli Dwarf."

The dwarf blew a humongous puff of smoke from his lips and coughed slightly. "What's with all these formalities? Have we not been traveling for nearly two months?"

The elf's smile grew wider. "The formalities are enforced, Master Dwarf," he told the smoking figure. "For in that time, it seems that I have never gotten to actually meet you. Perhaps we should start now. Good morrow, Master Dwarf, for I do not know the actual time. I am called Legolas, of the Woodland realm."

Gimli laughed so hard that the nearby sleepers shifted in their positions and muttered in their sleep. "You're not too bad, elf. You're not too bad!" he grinned.

**TBC...**

* * *

Phew! That chapter's complete. If you like it, please review! And if you don't like it... well, review anyway! I wanna hear from you! 


	5. Elf For Dinner

"Your friendship has grown indeed," the old man puffed away at his pipe, observing, "from that _rocky_ stage." He chucked at his own pun, and Gimli joined in. The man swished his ray cloak closer around his body so that nothing could be seen but a pair of muddy black boots that had seen much wear. Legolas eyed these warily; they reminded him of Aragorn's boots at the time of the Council of Elrond, but he still did not say anything.

The long years of his life had taught him not to open his mouth until he was sure of all aspects of his position, and at the moment, he still could not figure out half of these aspects.

"Doubtless, you faced more obstacles along your path of friendship," the old man smiled. Gimli seemed to have come to trust him completely now, as the poor dwarf could not resist a good listener to his stories. He seemed to have cheered up from his morose mood after Legolas had told the story of the start of their friendship, and when Gimli was happy, he had a tendency to let his mouth run off.

Legolas thought back to the four hobbits that he had gotten to know so well, and how this trait was so similar to them. Frodo and Sam had already passed on to the Undying Lands, and he hoped to see them again. He had so much to share, and Gimli, doubtless would joy to see these two.

Pippin and Merry had been buried alongside King Elessar, and thinking of his friend again, the elf looked across the waters at the rising sun.

"Obstacles?" Gimli snorted, startling the elf from his thoughts. "The word 'obstacles' is a dreadful understatement, man, for we have faced much more!"

"Say on," the man prodded, moving his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other.

"Well, the worst was possibly when I longed to see my home at the Lonely Mountain again, and Legolas decided to come with me," Gimli began. "It started as a fiasco…"

* * *

**Elf For Dinner**

Gimli stood in his formal attire of a dark brown, velvet tunic and light brown leggings, in front of the dwarven council. The heavy velvet robe draped around his shoulders hung down to his informal traveling boots and the dwarf felt as if he was going to sink through the ground, his clothes were so heavy. Seeing that he had forgotten to change his shoes, Gimli bit his lip and edged his robes forward so that the front of his scratched boots could not be seen.

However, this did not make him feel any better, as his father, Bombur, Dwalin, Dori, Nori, Bifur, Bofur, and King Dain were all looking at him with venom in their hard brown eyes. Like always, when he was nervous, Gimli felt himself starting to grin like a mad-dwarf, and tried to drag down the corners of his mouth.

The hall under the mountain was lit by bright torches and a roaring fireplace. The council sat at a long wooden table, each dwarf with his hands folded in front of him and looking very stern indeed.

Finally, Glóin could hold it together no longer. "AN ELF!" he cried. "Of all the races, of all the friends you could have made, you brought _an elf_ to the Lonely Mountain to disturb our halls?"

Gimli's attempt to stop his manic grin failed, and he stood there, teeth showing from ear to ear, his eyes pleading guiltily.

"What in the _earth_ are you grinning about, Gimli?" Bombur scolded, his six chins wobbling dangerously under him. Indeed, the old dwarf was so fat that the chair underneath him was sagging with his weight and seemed as if it would break any second from now.

"No-nothing, sir," Gimli said, but however hard he tried, he could not stop his grin. "I… I just thought that perhaps you all would learn to like him. He's—"

Dori, however, did not seem to hear the younger dwarf's words and burst out, "You're father's right! You brought _an elf_ to the Lonely Mountain! And not just any elf! He's—"

"—the son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood!" Nori finished for his brother. "Thranduil! That damn elf kept your father and the rest of us in prison, feeding us bread and water and fruits for only Durin the Deathless knows how long!"

Gimli glanced helplessly down the long table, but none of the dwarves seemed to show any compassion or sympathy for his plight. Finally, he turned to Glóin, his father. "Please, Father," he begged, against his natural stubborn dwarf nature. "You_ would _like him. If you would just speak with, him or listen to him… He's quite courteous, Father! Please understand!" Then, suddenly, he had a wonderful idea. "Perhaps if he'd be at dinner, Father!"

Glóin, who had gotten quite deaf over the years, did not hear his son correctly. He thought he had said, "Perhaps if he'd be dinner, Father!" Gimli stared in surprise, as his father stroked his long, white beard and seemed to consider this option. He had never expected his father to accept Legolas _that_ easily.

"Hmm… now there's a thought," Glóin said to the horror of all the dwarves at the long table, and to Gimli's delight. But his hopes were soon shot when he let out the next line. "But how shall we serve him? Roasted? Fried? Stewed? Perhaps with a dabble of salt? I have heard that elf meat is especially tender, eh lads?"

At this, the entire long table burst into a raucous laughter as the dwarves slapped their thighs and tears formed in their eyes.

"Well, he's so _slender_, he'd never make a main course!" Bombur added. "Better serve him with the potatoes with a side of chicken!"

Gimli gaped in horror and wondered if his robes were really heavy enough to make him disappear into the ground.

"No, no!" Bifur roared. "Give him a taste of his own medicine and serve him with an apple in his mouth and put bread on the sides!"

"Radishes between his toes!" Bofur added.

All the dwarves of the council were holding their stomachs and rolling with laughter, but Gimli felt tears come into his own eyes for another reason.

"We'll have to cut off his head, of course," King Dain mused. "We would be doing him a great courtesy, you know. He wouldn't want to get that pretty yellow elf hair of his dirty, now would he?"

A mortified Gimli ran from the room, tears running down his cheeks, heavy dress robes and all.

* * *

After all the commotion, the dwarf council had finally agreed to let the elf come to dinner on the one condition that he was dressed appropriately and that he sit up front with the high ranking dwarves, such as the king.

As he got ready for the looming prospect of having an elf to meet his family, Gimli looked into a mirror to examine his robes. He had changed his traveling boots to normal, soft-soled slippers that were acceptable in high society. A tall figure came into his room, looking slightly confused and interested, and the dwarf turned, facing his friend, Legolas. One look, and he wanted to fall over and laugh.

Everything built in the Lonely Mountain these days were scaled down to dwarf size as men of Erebor rarely visited, and the elf had to duck to get through passages. In most rooms, he could not stand up. Now, in a huge dwarf robe, he looked ridiculous and small, the heavy velvet draping him from the shoulders to his feet.

Seeing Gimli's contorted expression, the elf sighed. "Is this _really_ necessary?"

The dwarf sobered, imagining the look on his father's face if Legolas came to dinner dressed in his Mirkwood attire, leggings and short tunic, with his bow. "I just want you to make a good impression with my family," he told the elf for what seemed to be the thirtieth time. "Really, you know, they haven't forgiven you for locking them up in the dungeons in Mirkwood."

The elf raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so they think _I_ locked them up?"

The dwarf thought he had seriously offended his friend and sighed. "Alright, lad, let's not bring up old grudges for friendship's sake."

But Legolas was not done. "You think at the time that _I_ wanted a bunch of dwarves living under me, making a racket in the dungeons?" His expression suddenly turned merry and he smiled at the dwarf. "Please, Gimli, I was heavily in the mind of turning them to the spiders."

Gimli's eyes grew wide. "You mention those spiders, and I swear that Bombur will kill you! He had the hardest time with those things and hearing them speak of them, I'm not in half a mind to visit Mirkwood!"

Legolas laughed. "Ah, yes. I remember Bombur. My father wished to keep him as a pet. You know, show off the splendor of Mirkwood and the friendship between the dwarves and the elves."

"Legolas!"

"Alright, alright. I won't say a word at dinner."

"Unless you're spoken to"

"Unless I'm spoken to," the elf repeated, rolling his eyes.

"And no short, fat, or beard jokes!"

"Only if they don't make any pointy-ear jokes."

"LEGOLAS!"

* * *

The two made it to the supper hall without too much trouble, and Legolas was glad that he could stand straight again, for the supper hall was built in the time of Smaug. The dwarf led the elf down the mazes of tables and with reverence, made him stand behind his chair next to him, until all the elders had sat down first.

"Is all this formality necessary?" Legolas asked in a whisper, who had seen enough of reverence like this in his life, as he was the Mirkwood prince. However, he had never thought that dwarves were the same way.

"_Extremely_ necessary!" Gimli hissed back, and said no more.

They sat, with the tunnel lit by the torches on the walls, the fires bouncing off the black rock all around them. Suddenly, Gimli gasped. He had forgotten that elves had extremely neat table manners and would never eat a meal with less than three utensils. However, dwarves generally at with their hands or perhaps a personal dagger, but nothing else.

As the meat of the night was set before them, he saw Legolas look questioningly down at his plate and around it, trying to find what he was supposed to eat with. The dwarf gasped again as his father and the entire council dug into their meat with ferocity and watched with horror as the elf gave them a look of disgust.

"It's dwarf custom, alright?" he hissed at the elf, who was turning green and looked as if the last thing he wanted to do right now was eat. "At least _look_ like you're eating. It's an insult to the host if you don't touch your meat!"

However, before Legolas could lift a finger, Glóin, who was sitting on the other side of the elf, poured him a goblet full of ale, knowing, with malice, that elves preferred wine. "So, how is your father?" he asked conversationally. Again, before Legolas could do anything, the dwarf asked, "What pets has he got in his dungeons now? Some Halflings? A man, perhaps?"

Having been raised in court, the prince knew the conduct and the malevolent comments some nobles could make, and only gave the dwarf a smile. He had been preparing for this, after all. "Why, no, Master Dwarf. He's keeping a spider now, so it can finish off any prisoners before they escape in barrels."

Gimli choked into his cup and kicked the elf harshly under the table.

Legolas gave him an innocent look that said, "Well, I _had_ to."

"Radishes, Master Elf?" Bofur, who was sitting across from Gimli asked, offering a plate of vegetables. The younger dwarf gulped, remembering Bofur's comments about serving an elf with radishes between his toes.

"Or perhaps some bread and apples?" Bifur piped up next to him. "After all, that was all you served _us_ when we were guests in your land."

"I believe your memory is quite addled, my dear Dwarf," Legolas said with an amused gleam in his eye that Gimli recognized as a challenge. "You were not guests, but prisoners, and seeing your state, my father generously offered you food, for you would have starved to death if he had not taken you in."

_No! No! No!_ Gimli had been afraid that something like this would have happened. _Why had his father mentioned Thranduil and the dungeons_? The younger dwarf buried his face in his food and tried not to look his father in the eye.

"Ah, yes, feels quite ridiculous, does he, about that incident?" Bombur asked, two seats down from Bofur. "Being tricked by a mere Halfling?"

The elf turned his gaze upon the fat dwarf, who was nearly drowning his chair with his blubber. "Master Bombur!" he greeted him with delight. "I do remember you! Though with a better attitude and a smaller waist! Though now, I must say, the spiders would be in rapture to see you again, after eighty years of a hiatus."

Hearing the mention of the spiders, the dwarf trembled, his chins wobbling to and fro, and he gripped the edge of the table with his pudgy fingers for support.

"Is your hearing impaired, Master Elf?" Dwalin asked, sitting on the other side of Bofur. "We asked if your father felt ridiculous being outsmarted by a hobbit!"

"Of course his hearing's impaired!" Dori laughed. "It starts with those pointy ears of his!"

Gimli was going back to his nervous habit of tugging at his beard. He gave a small cry of pain, as he was so anxious, he had nearly tugged his beard off.

"I don't see why you're harrowing my hearing," Legolas shot back. "After all, your ears are much to low to the ground to hear much."

The younger dwarf gave a cry of despair and leaped up from his place. The short jokes were the lowest his friend could have went, and he was sure that his father would now _really_ serve his friend for dinner. The anger boiling inside of him for his friend and his family became so high that he felt himself redden. "If you don't like each other, you could just keep quiet!" he bellowed, not knowing where he was getting his courage. "You could at least have _tried_ to get along. Think about how _I_ feel in all of this!"

With this, he left the table in a huff, storming off to his room.

The others looked after the dwarf in silence.

"Alright, fork over the mithril," Legolas broke the silence and turned the Glóin. "He didn't even stand that for five minutes."

Glóin stroked his beard and pulled out his lower lip, but handed over a full pouch of mithril coins. "I thought that my son had more endurance than that."

"Well yes, I thought your son did as well, but you must admit, the mithril was worth the look on his face," Dwalin laughed and winked at the elf across the table. "But really, Master Legolas, your short joke and the spider one _was_ a little over the top."

"Let's have the elf for dinner again tomorrow," Dori suggested, and everyone assented with cheers.

**TBC...**


	6. Flotsam and Jetsam

**Sorry, everyone that likes this story, but I haven't been updating due to the fact that school has started. I hope you like it and keep reviewing!**

* * *

As the day progressed, the old man seemed to be able to elicit more and more stories from the pair of their adventures, odd little idiosyncrasies, and even some tales of their friends during the time of the War of the Rings. Many of these recollections fell on the hobbits, or Halflings, from the happy, but, like all other lands except that of men, fading land called the Shire, just east of these ports. 

Indeed, there were so many tales, that only a few are recorded here, and most have been forgotten by the cleansing tide of the years. But, as all reading these stores may know, Gimli grew very fond of Merry and Pippin, or Master Meriadoc of Brandy Hall and Thane Peregrin.

"Mischievous little buggers, they were," Gimli chuckled, suppressing the odd lump in his throat. "And more than a few accidents they've gotten us into. But we've had good times."

The old man put out his pipe after seeing that he was running out of Longbottom Leaf, the best of 1436, Shire Reckoning, and looked intently upon the elf and dwarf. "But were they not captured by Saruman during your journey? They were rescued by the Ents, but how was it that they survived?"

The elf gave a small smile at this memory. "Why, Flotsam and Jetsam, of course, Master!"

* * *

Flotsam and Jetsam

Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli sat down, almost with awe, at the table of Saruman's watch house as the two hobbits bustled back and forth between the storehouse and the table, heaping their plates with bacon, eggs, some apples, and even wilted vegetables. It was practically magic how they disappeared, and then appeared again with the same dexterity, bearing more and more food from the wizard's pantries.

"How, by the Isildur's watery grave, did you come up with all of this?" Aragorn asked in astonishment, though his wide eyes did not stop him from consuming the food placed before him as fast as he could. The night at Helm's Deep and now this hasty journey to Isengard had taken a toll upon his stomach, and the bacon and eggs tasted especially good, though he suspected that they were only half-cooked; it was impossible to start a good fire with all the waters of the Isen flowing through every corner of Orthanc.

Gimli muttered something incomprehensible, and Merry took it as an assent to the man's question. His mouth was so full that his cheeks represented that of a chipmunks', and Pippin could not help but stifle a giggle as the dwarf's beard bobbed up and down like a squirrel hanging onto a tree and shaking in the wind.

The building they were in could hardly have been called a watchtower, for it was only a ramshackle hut pulled together with a few pieces of wood. Pippin scratched his furry head, wondering how it had not fallen when Treebeard and the Ents had pulled open the dam to set the Isen forth.

"Yes, tell us," Legolas inquired. Though he was eating in a much more refined way than the other two, it was clear that even he had grown tired of the taste of _lembas_.

"Well, it was easy enough," Merry confessed with a grin, and he and his friend plopped themselves down at the rickety table. In a careless fashion, he scooped up an apple and bit into it, swinging his legs, for the chair was much too high for him. "We just stumbled on this little place for some shelter and…"

* * *

"And what in the Shire are we supposed to do in here?" Pippin asked, his good humor failing him for once, for he was both scared and shaking by the creaking and ripping coming from outside. 

Both hobbits were waist deep in the clear water of the Isen, and the flow did not at all look like it was going to subside. "I don't know Pip," Merry answered, trying to keep his voice steady. "But we're coming in here because we're not in the Shire anymore."

Pippin waded forth, feeling the chill creep up his legs to his hips, and then his chest. "I reckon I should have a bigger reputation than the Old Took after this," he muttered to himself, but his friend heard him.

"And a more notorious one," Merry rolled his eyes, stepping after the younger hobbit, who was clearly shaking; he suspected that it was not the coolness of the water. "As if any respectable hobbit would go adventuring." He gave a curse that Pippin had not heard in the Shire since his father almost stepped into a boat.

Merry peered through the gloom, only pierced in a few places by the makeshift windows, where the rising sun was streaming in. With the water dragging at his legs, he walked over to some of the other windows, but found that he was much too short to even reach the bottom of the shutters. "Hey, Pip," he called. "Come here and give me a hand!"

The other hobbit turned and sloshed through the debris, kicking aside the floating bits of wood and other filth before reaching the window. Going on his toes, he flicked open the shutters with the very tips of his fingers, while Merry stared in disbelief. "You're taller!" he cried, his mouth open.

"Who?" Pippin asked, pushing the shutters out even further, then leaning back down so he was on the balls of his feet again.

"You!" his friend cried.

"Than what?"

"Than me!" Merry said exasperatedly. Sometimes, Pippin was just not the sharpest tool in the shed. Forgetting to stick Gandalf's fireworks into the ground during Bilbo's 111 birthday party had been a dead giveaway of that.

"I've always been taller than you!" he retorted, putting his hands on his hips, which was slightly hard, as his hips were under water. He then cursed and tried to wring out his sleeves, but Merry was intent upon the other hobbit's height.

"Pippin, everyone knows I'm the tall one," he tried to explain patiently, remembering measuring back in the Shire just last fall. "You're the short one!" He then bit his lower lip, remembering his homeland and gazed out the window. It was hard to believe that it had only been a few months since they had set out from the Shire because Sam had revealed Frodo's plan to leave his home and go to Rivendell.

Pippin did not seem to notice his friend's silence but continued to speak. "Please, Merry. You're, what? Three-foot-six? At the most? Whereas me, I'm three foot-seven, three-foot eight."

The other hobbit came back to the present and squinted at Pippin. "Three-foot eight?"

But the other had already forgotten about the issue of their height as he stared out the window. The shutters opened directly to a wonderful view of the tower of Isengard, where they could clearly see the White Wizard standing at the summit of the tower, a white speck against the pale morning sunlight. Next to him, swathed in black, stooping and hunchbacked, the exact opposite of the straight-backed Saruman, was Wormtongue, greasy and servile.

Merry felt his lips draw back in disgust as he watched the two, and he clenched his fists at his sides, a fury he had never known before burning inside him as he thought about the destruction the wizard had made. He did not even know if his friends were alive. Gandalf, he was not so worried about, but what of Frodo and Sam? Could they still be alive, somewhere, fighting hopelessly against the Dark Lord?

And what of Strider, Gimli, and Legolas? Where were they?

He turned to Pippin, and suddenly, he was very glad that he still had him with him, though the young hobbit had gotten him into loads of trouble along the way. He was grateful for all the laughs and good times that Pippin had given him, as he would have gone mad if he had not had something to chuckle about when the Orcs had captured them or when they had been thrown into the care of Treebeard. The Ents still frustrated him, as he could not help but hate Old Entish.

Turning to Pippin, he decided to take a lighter mood on things, though he had matured immensely from the hobbit that had left Brandy Hall to help Frodo to Imladris. "He doesn't look to happy, does he?" he asked, indicating Saruman.

"Not too happy at all, Merry," the younger hobbit grinned, cocking his head as he looked up at the pair on Isengard.

"Still, I suppose the view would be quite nice from up there," Merry commented, feeling a grin slide across his face. Pippin had that quality with most people.

"Oh yes," the younger smiled with a slight bit of sarcasm. "It's a quality establishment. I hear the staff are very good." They both shared a laugh, but the other still could not believe that Pippin was taller than him. Creeping behind him as the younger hobbit continued to admire the "greatness" of Isengard, Merry put a hand up, trying to measure their heights.

"What _are_ you doing?" Pippin asked, finally noticing and turning around.

"Nothing, nothing," the other hobbit answered hastily, pushing his hands deep into his vest pockets, for at least they were still out of the water. He scratched his head and looked back up, once more at the tower of Orthanc, and sighed. "The world's back to normal, that's all." He remembered Frodo and Sam, then Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, and muttered in an undertone, "At least, ours is."

Pippin had not heard the last part of his friend's speech, and protested to the first line, "No, it isn't! I'm starving!" His stomach rumbled loudly beneath his yellow outer tunic, as if assenting with its master.

Merry raised an eyebrow, but his stomach began to complain as well, and he could not deny the fact that they had not eaten any decent food since they had been captured. There had been the crumbs of the elf-bread, and then they had drunk the draughts of Treebeard, but that could not have counted as a proper meal, for it was liquid.

"Well, good luck trying to find something decent to eat around here," he replied, sloshing away from the open window. The entire storeroom looked brighter now, as there was more light and the sun was starting to rise. A small, square, picnic basket floated by and he checked it for some food, but in vain. The basket was empty, except for a small nest of mice, cowering and squeaking as water threatened to come in through the holes of the woven straw. "Probably dead rats and moldy bread," he concluded in disgust and stepped past the basket.

"Hey! There are apples!" Pippin cried in delight, picking up the small, red fruit from the floating material. He walked up, happily, next to Merry, who took the apple for examination. Other than a few bruises, it looked fit enough to eat. "Look!" The younger hobbit pointed to the small trail in the water. More of the small fruits floated innocently among the debris, almost in a straight line towards a pantry that they had missed, in the far corner of the room.

Both surged forward, eager to see where it led.

Opening the door to the place, they both gasped in eager excitement. "Saruman's storeroom!" Merry said in exhilaration. It appeared that they would not starve after all, for the shelves above ground were piled high with packets of dried fruit, preserved vegetables, and even a few jugs of ale. On hooks, hung slabs of salted pork, drying beef, and even some fowls that looked as if they had been freshly killed.

Both turned to the corner of the pantry then, and gave small cries of wonder at the two large barrels, issuing forth a familiar, grassy smell. "I don't believe it!" Pippin shouted, astonished and waded over and put his hands in to see if the leaf was still dry. Most of it was a little soggy, but still good.

"It can't be!" Merry came over as well.

"It is!"

"Longbottom Leaf?" the other stared and brought some of the weed to his nose, taking in the memorable scent. His olfactory senses heightened as he smelled something that had come from his homeland. "The finest pipe-weed in the South Farthing!"

"It's perfect!" Pippin again cried in glee, already doing the math in his little head. "One barrel each." He was already fishing his pipe from his waistcoat when he suddenly realized something. "Wait. Do you think we should share it with Treebeard?"

Merry was in too good of a mood to knock the younger hobbit over the head for his stupidity. His pipe was out and he was already loading it with Longbottom Leaf. "Share it?" he questioned. He paused for a second and chewed his lower lip. "No, no," he finally answered, seeing the logic in it all. "Dead plant and all that. Don't think he'd understand." Leaning in closer, though there was no one to hear, he muttered, "You know, could be distant relative."

"Oh," Pippin replied in the same undertone. "I get it." He touched his nose and said in a deep voice, "Doooonn't be haaaaaaaaasty."

Merry had already placed his pipe in his mouth. "Exactly," he patted his friend on the hand. "Barrruuuum."

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By then end, the others were laughing too hard for Merry and Pippin to continue with the story. The two hobbits only stared, slightly amused, but more bewildered than anything, for they could not see the hilarity of their situation. 

Finally, as the three others calmed, Gimli spoke. "Where are those barrels of Longbottom Leaf? You could not have smoked it all in such a short period of time." The dwarf felt himself for a pipe and continued, "Besides, I always thought that the pipe-weed from the Shire was better that the stuff we grow back at home."

Pippin immediately grinned and disappeared, going back towards the storeroom. The water had receded since when they first found it, so only his toes became a little sodden from the puddles that still remained on the ground.

Aragorn wrinkled his nose, and removed a pipe from beneath his cloak. "Aye, I have smoked some of the leaf they export from Erebor." From his tone, it was obvious that he had not liked it.

The hobbit soon returned, and Legolas turned back to his wine with distaste as the four others began to wreathe themselves in smoke.


	7. Epilogue

**Author's Note**: Sorry for not updating for so long, those of you that wanted to read this. I just haven't had time with all of my other fics and school work. I hope you enjoy this!**

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**Epilogue**

"Sirs? Your seats are ready for you," the same, absent-minded young man told the elf and dwarf. The two, deeply immersed in nostalgia, looked up, almost surprised to see that the sun was high in the noon sky and that the shadows of the ships and trees had nearly disappeared.

Only then, it seemed, did they realize that they would be leaving the shores of Middle-Earth. Legolas looked back at the old man, whose familiarity nagged at the back of his mind, and smiled. Gimli put a hand on his friend's arm, and together, with a last look at the old man, made their way, with the young man, towards the shores.

The dwarf looked back at the blurry grounds of Middle-Earth and the stories that Legolas and he had told flooded back to his mind. Such wonderful memories were attached to this good earth. Here was where his friends were buried. Here was where his home was. Could he leave it for all of eternity, never to return?

"Wait," he spoke, and Legolas stopped.

Gimli turned back and knelt, taking off his gloves. Then, with the aged, wrinkled fingers of an expert craftsman, he buried the edges of his palm into the loving soil of his home. Nothing could replace that smell of the earth, damp, raw, and utterly indomitable by any. He closed a fist around the loose, moist mud around the havens and clamped it into a ball of… of… were there words to describe this?

One last touch.

One last memory.

Wordlessly, the elf joined the dwarf on the ground. Though most of his life had been spent in trees, the children of the earth, he also had to pay tribute the mother of his home. "Take it with you," he whispered gently, and saw the glistening pearls of tears form at the edges of his friend's eyes.

With his other hand, Gimli hastily wiped them away, and shook his head, as if waking from a dream. He laughed at himself and tried to dismiss the entire thing, but Legolas saw him put the earth in the same pocket that contained the Lady Galadriel's three hairs.

"Come, let us go." He put a hand on the dwarf's shoulders and led him towards the ships. Then, with excitement and sorrow in his heart, he looked back one last time at the land of his birth, and stepped onto the ship, never to return.

The old man sat where he was, puffing away at his pipe and watched the two contrasting figures, one tall, one short, one lithe, the other stout with age, walk side by side. An elf and dwarf. Two unlikely friends, caught at the end of their time, ready to move on.

He had seen them before in his youth, but because of his ignorance, he had laughed then. Now, after hearing about their stories, after _knowing_ them, he saw only the beauty of their attempt to bridge a gap between two declining races. If only humans could do that, he thought sadly. IF only Gondorians and Rohirrim could live together in harmony. If only they did not look down upon the Wild Folk and dismiss them as barbarians. If only the Rangers of the North had not been exiles.

These two told of a time lost to him. When he had traveled with them, he had been young. He remembered the honor with which he had delivered that staff to the great King Elessar.

Yes.

Those were the Lost Years. They were gone forever. His name would not live on in history books. He had just been an outcast. A Ranger of the North.

Halbarad was his name, and he was the last of their kin.

When he was gone, the Dunedain would end.

And yet, he did not feel that he had wasted his time with the two. They had told him their stories and had made him remember.

Now, he began to recall his own tales of the lost years, and he realized, that they were not so long and sad as he thought.

**The End**

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**Well, that's the end of those vignettes. I hope that you liked my interpretation of Legolas and Gimli's last journey over the sea. Were you surprised at who the old man was? Hee hee... Please review!**


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